


Little Things

by dotcom (dipshitHarlequin)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: But It's Kinda Odd, Dave Go Home You're Gay, Dave Has A Lot Of Feelings For His Best Friend, He Knows A Lot, M/M, Second Person Dave-Centric, he has good intentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dipshitHarlequin/pseuds/dotcom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some would venture to call it obsession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Things

You were never one for minscule detail in your daily life, always moving too quickly to stop for the metaphorical roses that everyone says to value so greatly. You never saw purpose in putting aside a trek downtown to watch the way your ironically purchased, hipster cliche, pumpkin spice latte swirled when the wind blew brisk over your lidless disposable cup. No sense in dropping your day's work to admire the slide of the rain over your window at every God damn storm that grazed the Seattle sky. As vehemently opposed as you were to little things, you couldn't help the way they haunted you in the prescence of one John Egbert.  
When he's around, the whole world is little things, like the way the stray hairs that splay haplessly from his defiant cowlick catch in the light of his computer screen when you stand behind him as he plays idly about on the internet. "Important buisness," He calls it when he scrolls endlessly over Tumblr, reblogging stupid shit no one cares about. No one as in his 3,825 followers. You'd never admit that he has more than you, or that his follower count is the PIN to your phone. You pay attention to the way he laughs, and really laughs, when he sees something funny, and it's so different from the usual quick puff of air that people usually give. It's brighter, almost childlike, and if it's not a expertly composed melody to you, nothing is. No matter what's got you caught up in him at the time, the one thing most appealing to you always seems to boil down to the cheesiest, corniest possible bullshit part of that precious dork.  
His eyes.  
There was always something inhumanly captivating about John's eyes, to anyone who met him. Stark blue that could taze you more than a jolt of lightning. Ocean sapphire as deep as the Mariana Trench and then some. The keys to the soul, and God bless the smith that had to weld such a very intricate key. You want to call them angel eyes, but you know that John's no angel.  
You've seen him, perhaps more times than any, when he's been pushed too far, and there's nothing scarier, nothing more chilling than someone you see as the picture of innocence, half ready to tear someone apart with his bare hands. And you're not the only one who's afraid of him in times like those. You've seen Egbert, in all his five foot glory, send people twice his size cowering, and in those moments, you were intimidated, but you were so very, very proud, all at once.  
Even still, it's his everyday demeanor that has you wanting to bottle him up, tie him around your neck and carry him by your heart. The John that keeps his spirits up when the cards are down, the John that never goes without a smile plastered to his face and a bright side in his mind's eye. He's an asshole sometimes, but he doesn't mean to be, he just speaks too quick and thinks too late when he only means to play, and when he goes too far he wrings his hands as he apologizes and _fuck you_ if you don't want to take those hands away from him, hold them in yours where you know they fit perfectly and tell him it's okay, tell him that he's _perfect_ , tell him how you feel.  
You love him.  
It's wrong and you know it is because he's not gay, because he doesn't think of you as anything more than a friend, but God do you want him to. You want him to notice, on the nights when he's curled around you in your self-proclaimed 'totally ironic bro cuddles', how well his body fits against yours and how your chests rise and fall in time with every subtle contented sigh you let off. You want him to feel the same electric spark you do when his little fingers lace with yours and for a moment, you forget where you end and he begins. You want him to realize that his cheeks twinge pink when you compliment him, and an even darker shade of red when you make an innuendo out of something he said. You want him to know you think he's beautiful.  
You wish you could say it's his body that you want, that the way you crave him is limited to a lustful desire and that it will surely fade as you escape your high school years and develop a taste of life. You want to be able to say that your intentions are simple and purely curious, maybe a single night with him between your sheets and everything would be answered, you wouldn't need anything else. But you would be a liar.  
You could care less for his body, for what it has to offer you. Not to say that you're by any means opposed to it, you do want him in such a way, but it's hardly a portion of what you see in him.  
You see potential in him, boundless amounts of potential in the compatibility between the two of you. Your jokes and his and the way you use them to make hapless banter because you know that no matter what the two of you are actually saying to each other, the situations you're both respectively in are much better when you have a text from your very, _very_ best friend to look down at.  
You see opportunity in him, for all the limitless events that haunt your dreams, your fantasies. And while you hate to call them fantasies for the word's general connonation, you can't call them anything else. When you come home from school and shrug your jacket off, wring your freezing hands and lock the winter out behind you, you like to close your eyes and picture that when you step into your bedroom, he'll already be there.  
 _You push open the door and he's already made a mess, sitting criss-crossed on the bed with his books and papers scattered in every direction. You can tell he's in his 'zone' by the way his eyebrows pinch and he bites his lip, nervously rapping his pencil on the cover of his binder before he turns it and scribbles down another answer on what looks to be a history review. You grab the back of your computer chair and tug it to the bedside, where you sit in backwards in it and fold your arms over the back._  
 _“Whatcha doin'?”_  
 _You catch his eyes, those killer eyes, but only for a moment before he returns to his work._  
 _“Homework.”_  
Your phone's going off, and it pulls you from your daze. You don't even bother to check it, letting yourself slip back into your warbled mess of alternate reality. It seems, though, that there's been a bit of a skip ahead, because daydream-Dave doesn't actually do anything else, except for watch him work.  
 _He's cleaning up now, and you're helping, papers in stacks by teacher, and in folders in pockets by stack, all perfectly organized the way he likes. He gets the last of his bundles in the last of his folders and snaps closed his binder clasps, sticking his collected binder and textbooks back into his backpack, securing it and pushing it off the bed. You watch the way his fingers move and the way his chest expands with a sigh as he falls back onto the bed. You crawl up next to him and wrap one arm around his waist, the other moving to take his hand. Pale fingers fit perfectly in the spaces between yours, and he takes the initiative to tangle your ankles together. The suit patterned duvet dips comfortably around you, and you lie there for a moment in silence, adjusting yourselves to the comfort of each other's closeness. When you're both at ease, he whispers to you, as light as the breeze, the words you're dying to hear._  
 _"I love you."_  
 _"I love you too."_  
Not a hint of hesitation, because it's perfectly true. On both ends. Sadly, this fantasy must draw to a close as all others, because you have about a week's worth of real-life homework that you have openly ignored for far too long.  
Then again...  
One more day won't hurt.  
Still, you got what you wanted and your thoughts have run their course, so you think about other things instead.  
Other things that just happen to also be John.  
You think of him, with skin like porcelain and hair like silk, and you want to touch him. You want to run your fingers over him so lightly that he can hardly feel it, press your lips to his jaw and whisper promises of eternities.  
You want to grab him, hold him tight and kiss him hard. Mark him everywhere, _everywhere_ , all for your own.  
You think of his eyes, blue like gemstones and lively as starlight, and you want to sit with him and watch the world go by.  
You think of the way he smells, like vanilla and rain, and you wonder if you could find a bottle of it somewhere. Genuine nerd musk, labeled in powder blue.  
You think of the way he smiles, the way he laughs, the way he moves, and it is now, like many times before, that you are completely swept away with an overwhelming sense of _John,_ and your heart is screaming.  
You need John Egbert like you need breath, a minute without him is a minute too long and you are _lost_ , absolutely lost in the furthest throes of puppy love. A word to you could make your heart stop and a single touch could make you melt, fall away from Earth itself into a pit of adoration just as endless and vivid as when your feet were set on solid ground.  
Your love for John _scares_ you, because you don't want his body, you don't want his hand, you want his heart, and a desire for the heart can be a dangerous game.  
On one end, or the other.


End file.
